


Mr. Beaks

by NegaAria



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegaAria/pseuds/NegaAria
Summary: The last person Falcon ever expected to be working for was Mark Beaks, but when his new employer is kidnapped everything changes, and Falcon discovers a side to Mark he never knew existed.A prequel to Good Boy.
Relationships: Mark Beaks/Falcon Graves
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Beaksed

The air was heavy, weighed down by something foreboding and inescapable. It followed Falcon with every step, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The specific way the feathers on the back of his neck were standing on end was something he had long ago learned not to ignore, but there was something very different about it this time, something distinctly familiar… in a very ominous and faintly irritating sort of way. Falcon rubbed at his tingling skin with a soft growl. With his senses constantly on high alert, he was hardly unaccustomed to feeling like something was amiss, but at the same time he wasn’t sure what was currently causing it, and that was driving him crazy. Once again he glanced over his shoulder, narrowed eyes hunting for whatever potential threat was making his plumage twitch. He tried to shake off the feeling, but it lingered, and he clenched the shopping bags in his right hand just a bit tighter as his left squeezed his concealed handgun.

Sharp talons clicked against the cement as Falcon made his way through the parking garage, following the same path he did every day down the less public portion of the underground lot. It was always dimly lit and hardly the most direct route to his residence, but Falcon preferred the road less traveled. The doorman was far too social for his tastes, and the neighbors were always nosy, spouting endless, relentless drivel that grated mercilessly on his every nerve. Rich socialites with nothing better to do, he supposed.

Falcon grumbled softly to himself as he entered the staff elevator (one of several unexpected perks he had gained from befriending the nighttime maintenance man). He rubbed at the back of his neck in an attempt to alleviate that lingering tingle, but the feeling only grew worse as Falcon exited the lift and made his way swiftly towards his apartment. He looked over his shoulder one final time before stepping inside his home, all the while glaring down the hallway in both directions as if daring that invisible threat to reveal itself. Nothing did of course, but Falcon continued to eye the empty passage suspiciously until the door was fully closed.

A curt sigh greeted the welcome sight of his ever pristine and discerningly adorned residence, but the relief it conveyed was short lived as being inside only seemed to intensify the sensation of unease even more. Just as Falcon was about to convince himself that he had simply gone crazy, a shuffling in the kitchen caught his attention putting him on full alert and instantly instigating the reveal of his previously hidden Flock 45. He moved towards the sound with swift but calculated steps, weapon ready to attack and shopping bags still clenched in his fist. A few rapid, silent strides placed him just outside the entry to his kitchen. He paused only briefly to listen for his target before whipping through the doorway and expertly placing his sites and his aim on the intruder.

Narrow-eyed anger changed to dumbfounded surprise almost too quickly to process. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Falcon mumbled under his breath, annoyance seeping into every syllable.

There, in his own personal kitchen of all places, was Mark fucking Beaks, grinning that infuriating grin and apparently completely un-phased by the firearm pointed right between his eyes. “Hey, Gravesy!” he said with seemingly oblivious enthusiasm. “‘Bout time, was getting suuuper bored. Posh pad though, totally digging the uptight gay guy vibe.”

Falcon snarled at the wink and one handed finger gun that punctuated that statement. “What the HELL are you doing in my apartment?!”

“Chillin’, duh,” Mark answered, lifting himself onto the counter and apparently making himself quite at home as he tapped away at his phone. “Oh, btw I bit like everything in your fridge. It was all majorly gross.” He cocked a brow, pulling his attention away from his phone for a second as he looked skyward and thought about that. “Might wanna go shopping.”

That fact was quite obvious given the state of disarray his kitchen was now in, and Falcon snarled at it, dropping his bags roughly on the counter as if to say I just did. He didn’t say it, in fact he was probably incapable with his teeth clenched so tightly, but the twitching of his angrily narrowed brow said it for him. Not a word was uttered as he rounded the large kitchen island but a steady slew of furious noises trickled from his beak and didn’t stop until he had grabbed a satisfying fistful of Mark’s neck. Being manhandled and dragged out to the balcony by his throat didn’t seem to bother Mark much as he was still talking the entire time, but then again Falcon wasn’t really holding hard enough to choke him (as tempting as that sounded). He did, however, increase the pressure just enough when Mark’s babbling grew too annoying to bear.

“Careful, Gravesy,” Mark choked out with a laugh. “This is kinda hot.” He rolled his eyes at the glare he received in return. “Omg, you still can’t take a joke?!”

No answer.

“Come ooon, I just want to talk.”

“I don’t know what gave you the impression that I want to hear _anything_ you have to say, but this ends now!” Falcon yelled, lifting his captive over the terrace edge and dangling him hundreds of feet above certain doom.

Mark stared down past his feet, just as unimpressed by the 37 stories between him and the ground as he was the previous time they had done this dance. “Oh, right. The roof thing. Lived it, loved it, totally over it. What else ya got, big guy?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Believe me, you _do not_ want to know,” Falcon snarled.

“Hoooo scary face. Hold that pose!”

Falcon snatched the phone that had just been shoved into his face, and before Mark could even react he chucked it against the balcony floor where it shattered into a million very satisfying pieces. He didn’t miss a beat before flipping Mark head over heels, gripping his ankles and shaking him violently until every bit of his ludicrous backup phone supply was depleted.

Mark squawked in fear, grabbing blindly at the precious tech but failing to catch any of them before they were out of reach. Falcon yanked him up higher so that he was still upside down but now face to face with the other man’s fury, but instead of intimidating Mark as Falcon would have hoped all it did was antagonize him. “HEY! Not cool, Graves! I’m seriously gonna fucking flip if you don’t get me a phone right now!”

“You are hardly in a position to be making demands!”

Mark’s scowl faltered, giving way to an abrasively smug smirk. “Hate to break it to ya, big guy, but neither are you.”

Falcon’s eyes narrowed as he pulled Mark closer, their beaks practically touching as he scowled at the infuriating parrot. “And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“Means check your bank account, hot stuff.”

Falcon eyed him suspiciously, but did just that, shifting to hold both Mark’s ankles in one hand as he checked his phone with the other. There glaring back at him was a very non-standard notification that his bank account had been “Beaksed” and he no longer had access to it. At that point the pew pew pew scrolling across his screen only added insult to injury.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!”

“Beaksed up your account _obviously_ ,” Mark said, smirk only extending even as his fingers trembled erratically from phone withdrawal. “Can you like, put me down now? Gettin’ kinda dizzy here, and if I’m gonna be upside down and dizzy I better be drunk and getting laid.”

He received only a glare in response.

Mark let loose an annoyed groan, drawing it out for an unnecessarily long time. “Look, we both know you didn’t have enough money in that account to afford the lifestyle you have obviously become accustomed to,” he said with a gesture towards Falcon’s elegant abode, “You’re drowning in debt and I’m here to offer you butt tons of money, so you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Cool, cool?”

Falcon’s suspicious expression only intensified, but he released Mark anyway, pulling him back to safety and dropping him head first onto the floor. “Not a single thing about this is _cool_ ,” he grumbled, turning his back on the parrot and reentering his home as he swiped furiously at his phone in an attempt to remove the apparent Beaks virus it was now infected with.

Sitting upright with a groan, Mark cocked his head at Falcon as he watched him walk away, pausing to eye his tight ass as the larger bird lingered in the doorway.

“What precisely are you here to propose?” Falcon said through still clenched teeth in a way that showed how enthusiastic he really was about getting sucked into yet another Beaks’ brand scheme.

“Oh, nothing fancy,” Mark said, lifting himself from the ground and sauntering into Falcon’s home like he owned the place. “Recent… events have left me in need of some muscle and well,” he paused, eyes roaming slowly down Falcon’s body, “you’ve got plenty of that.”

Falcon wasn’t quite sure what to make of that comment, so he ignored it. “Who says I need your help?” he scoffed. “There are plenty of rich people in this city with nothing better to spend their money on, why would I waste even a second of my time protecting the person I want to murder most in the world?!”

Yellow eyes narrowed, sadistic excitement radiating from Mark’s demeanor even as he gnawed on his fingers to keep the anxious appendages busy. “Because I’ll burn your ass real bad if you don’t,” he said. “No one in a million miles will ever hire you again.”

It felt like an empty threat –Falcon wanted very badly to convince himself of that—but it was well within Mark’s power to do, and as it was that singular spoiled brat had already effectively ruined Falcon’s reputation. The internal struggle was painted all over his face as he glared at his still unusable bank account.

Mark’s eyes rolled skyward as he finally pulled his fingers free of his mouth to snatch Falcon’s phone away from him. “Look, Gravesy,” he said as he tapped at the smartphone with what seemed like impossible speed, “we both know you’re gonna say yes, so I’ll save you the trouble and agree for you.” He tossed the phone back at the older man, turning his back to him and making his way towards the door. “Now keep in mind that’s just a down payment, we’ll talk deets tomorrow.”

Falcon cocked a brow at that, inspecting his phone which not only showed restored access to his funds, but a new, exorbitant amount of zeros after what was previous a balance of a little over one hundred dollars. His eyes widened in shock, but his mouth drooled over the wealth that he so desperately needed.

“Be at my office bright and early, Gravesy!” Mark yelled from the entryway. “Bring lattes. Remember, almond INFUSED foam!”

With that he was gone as abruptly as he had appeared, leaving Falcon staring dumbfounded at the recently slammed door. The internal struggle within him lasted only seconds before he relented with a tense inhale of air. “ _Bloody hell_.”


	2. The Bodyguard and the Billionaire

To say that working for Mark Beaks was a challenge would hardly do it justice. It was an experiment in a whole new type of frustration, and Falcon questioned daily how he could have been crazy enough to take this job in the first place. Whether it was worth it or not was still up for debate, but still he stood there waiting begrudgingly for his boss to arrive just as he had every morning for nearly half a year, toes tapping impatiently and inanely specific latte order in hand. For someone so insistent on such things as religiously timed coffee, Mark sure didn’t seem too concerned with actually showing up to work on time.

Falcon sighed, leaning back slightly to rest his weight against the glass cage surrounding Mark’s office. Normally he wouldn’t give in to such an impulse, but after nearly an hour of waiting, he was finding it increasingly difficult to care about his usually strict standards of professionalism. Before the intrusion of Mark into his life, he wouldn’t have considered himself capable of such things, but the rules had been rewritten, and all previous thoughts of normality tossed aside.

Still, certain things at Waddle ran like clockwork, and Falcon actually found that rather comforting. He glanced at the digital clock on the wall. It was nearly 8:30, and he shifted his attention to the elevator just in time for it to open as the clock flipped to exactly half past the hour. Through it strode Miss Tilly Crane: Mark’s ever serious, but admirably efficient assistant.

Her appearance prompted Falcon back into his usual state of rigidness, his back straightening subconsciously as one might do to avoid being scolded by an overbearing parent. “Good morning Ms. Crane,” he greeted.

“Graves,” she replied in her customarily convoluted tone.

She took her place behind her desk without another word. Falcon had expected as much. If he didn’t know better he would have assumed he’d done something to wrong her, but as it was outside of their customary morning acknowledgment, they hadn’t said two words to one another. Apparently one of those words had offended though because no one else seemed to elicit that same edge of disdain that she tended to address him with. Still, their morning ritual had become quite routine, and there was something he appreciated about the consistency of her presence. It was a welcome relief from the chaos that was Mark Beaks, and it had quickly become obvious that her steadfast dedication and no-nonsense attitude were really the only reason Waddle functioned at all. Falcon suspected there was something more to that, but as it wasn’t his job to find out he kept his nose out of it.

A second ding of the elevator pulled a sigh from Falcon. It was accompanied by the muffled sound of the most obnoxious dubstep possible as his young employer walked, or rather danced, obliviously towards them, phone in one hand and large, Waddle-brand bag in his other. He twerked towards his office, either unable or unwilling to acknowledge anyone as he unlocked the door with his phone and pushed it open with a bump of his hip. Falcon rolled his eyes, following silently. He dumped Mark’s now cold coffee in the trash on the way in as he knew trying to get Mark to just reheat it was an exercise in futility.

Even through Mark’s headphones, his music sounded retched and Falcon quickly found his brow twitching angrily in time with the beat (or lack thereof). He took his usual place beside his employer, arms crossed and eyes scowling as Mark jumped onto his desk.

Mark finally paused his one-man rave long enough to acknowledge that Falcon was even there, stopping mid sway and pulling the headphones off his ears. “GRAAAVESSSEH! S’up my dude? Got new hats for pride month, aren’t they great?!” he said as he shoved one of the prototypes of said headgear forcefully onto Falcon’s well-kept hair. “Propeller is made of Polly Ranchers, how dope is that?!” he flicked the propeller for emphasis, excitement seeping from his expression.

“Disgustingly superfluous,” Falcon grumbled, yanking the hat off his head and crassly crushing it.

Mark didn’t even seem to notice as he continued to pose ridiculously with his own carbon copy of the beanie that Falcon had just murdered, taking selfies presumably to show off his new merchandise on social media. “I know right?” he said while tapping fervently on his phone, “I’m awesome.”

Falcon inhaled deeply and slowly in an attempt to calm himself. That deep breath instantly devolved into a disgruntled growl when his effort was undermined by Mark moving his own hat to Falcon’s head as he jumped from the desk. The second hat met the same fate as the first (albeit in a somewhat more violent fashion), but once again Mark seemed uninterested as he busied himself with typing on his phone.

“Omg, you should totally model the new shirts when they come in. Your gay ass could sell the shit outta some pride merch!”

Every time Falcon thought Mark couldn’t find a new level to irritate him on he was proven wrong. “Excuse me?” he said with a somewhat dumbfounded snarl.

“Dude, gay guys love a good beefcake. I mean, I’m not gay, but I’d know,” he snickered. “Those glorious pecs of yours could move SO much product.”

Falcon could feel his blood beginning to boil and with it his thoughts grew less logical and his mental filter less stringent. “My orientation is NOT a joke, Mr. Beaks,” he hissed with poorly contained fury.

Finally, he seemed to have Mark’s full attention, the younger man turning towards him with phone lowered and half-baked smirk building on his face. “Woooah, wait, wait, wait… you’re _gay,_ Gravesy? I mean, I was kinda kidding, but I totally knew it! Omg did you just come out? Am I your first man crush?! I’m totes throwing you a coming-out party! Party at mah criiiibe WOOOOO! Commemorative selfie!”

Falcon knocked the phone out of Mark’s hand before he could make good on that selfie threat, but it didn’t stop Mark from shoving another in his face moments later so he could plaster a bunch of stupid stickers all over the photo before posting about how he was #socrushingitwithwaddlepride.

“NO! No to all of that!” Falcon yelled, moving away from the desk and bringing Mark’s latest phone with him just for the satisfaction of destroying it even though he knew Mark would magically produce another only moments later. “…except the gay part,” he added over his shoulder. “That is real, and I am not going to be an accessory for you while you try to capitalize on my community!”

“Um, _excuse_ me, I think you mean OUR community.”

“You just said you weren’t gay!”

“Duuuh, I’m not! “No that’s just what the stupid internet says. I’m just into hot people… what’s that orientation called?”

“ _Shallow_.”

“Oh, right. Yeah I’m that. It’s way cooler.”

“What could _possibly_ make your sexual orientation cooler than mine?”

“Pfft, being an equal opportunity employer is _way_ more in. I’m totally making bi the new gay! … Or should I make it the new trans? Which is cooler? Hey, phone, how is trans trending right now?” The feeling of Falcon’s seething eyes boring into him brought Mark’s attention to his glaring bodyguard. “What? Don’t give me that look, Gravesy.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Fine, _Lames Bond_. GEEZ! You’re a serious buzzkill for a super spy, you know that?”

“I am not a spy! I am a corporate saboteur,” Falcon corrected.

“Ugh, only you could make spy sound so lame. Still rockin’ that suit game though.”

The way Mark eyed him as he said that only compounded Falcon’s fury, making his entire face tense from the stress of holding it back. 

Mark snickered at the ridiculousness of the resulting expression. “You should really join me for yoga today, Graves. It’ll do _wonders_ for your blood pressure.”

“Absolutely not.” 

Mark groaned. “You are so _lame_. How do you even function with so much crotchety old man gunking up your system?!”

“I do not believe I was hired for my ability to be _hip_ ,” Falcon grumbled.

“I’ll say.”

Falcon responded with a sigh. “Don’t you have more important things to worry about than organizing 9 am exercise sessions?”

“Neeeeerp,” Mark said, throwing himself into his office chair and typing manically on his computer for a few moments that seemed too short for him to have really written anything.

Falcon knew better, but it still consistently blew his mind that Mark could accomplish anything in the rushed and spastic fashion that he often did it in. He watched through the corner of his eye as Mark pushed away from his desk once again, rounding the large piece of furniture and grabbing hold of Falcon’s tie as he passed.

“Come on big guy, gotta go get my center on!”

Falcon yanked his tie away from Mark’s pathetic grip, smoothing his attire back into place with an annoyed huff. He was still fussing with it when the meaning of Mark’s words sunk in, and he abruptly stopped as his brow cocked. “Wait, are you seriously doing this _now_?” he questioned, genuinely flabbergasted. “You just got here!”

“Yup, so we’re already behind schedule. Now less talking more guarding.”

Falcon sighed yet again, functioning on autopilot as he dutifully followed his already departing employer and mentally settled in for 90 boring minutes of what he considered to be the most ridiculous form of exercise ever conceived.

* * *

In reality, yoga wasn’t _really_ so bad. Not doing it, of course, that looked absolutely wretched, but as the weeks passed Falcon had been finding a certain satisfaction in watching his young boss bend so expertly. He put the others to shame as he twisted with a surprising amount of grace, babbling as he always did but at a whole new level of pretense. It was downright torturous the first few times, but once Falcon had learned to tune out Mark’s would-be guru chatter he actually found the daily yoga sessions to be one of the more relaxing parts of his day. Deep down he even felt some sort of disappointment when Mark began wrapping things up, but he was nowhere near willing to admit that. He was just disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to at least toss out a rabid fan or an uninvited tabloid photographer—or so he told himself.

“FALCON!”

Falcon jumped at the unexpected yell, body tensing and hand instinctively reaching for his weapon before he realized that Mark was just trying to get his attention. Had he been daydreaming? “Y-yes, Mr. Beaks?” he managed.

“You coming or you just gonna stand there all day looking pretty?”

Falcon cleared his throat awkwardly. “I do believe that would be a criminal waste of my talents.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mark snickered, wiping at his barely damp feathers with his towel as he turned to lead Falcon back inside. He paused just outside his private dressing room, tossing the cloth at a passing intern. “Hold it here a minute, Gravesy. Gonna change and then we have that stupid meeting that Miss Tilly has been bugging me about all morning,” he said with an annoyed sneer.

“Yes, Mr. Beaks.”

“And no peaking,” Mark said with a mocking grin as he shut the door.

“Perish the thought,” Falcon replied with a roll of his eyes, turning his back to the door and keeping dutiful watch.

Keeping the daydreams at bay was surprisingly difficult today, but Falcon keep himself busy with meticulously scanning their surroundings. It was a somewhat more private section of Waddle although only barely off the beaten path. Lacking the noise and ridiculous adornments present in most of the building, it almost seemed to be a different structure altogether. Falcon appreciated the reprieve from the somewhat childish vibe in the rest of that so-called place of business, but there was something about how eerily quiet it was today that was putting him on edge.

Something was amiss, and Falcon’s feathers prickled even before strange sounds began filtering through the closed door behind him. “Mr. Beaks?” he questioned with his ear to the door. When the answer came was a muffled scream, politeness gave way to duty, Falcon slamming his shoulder into the door with enough force to practically knock it free from its hinges.

Falcon loomed in the door looking like the fierce predator he was, leering down at the two men that currently had Mark gagged and halfway restrained in what was apparently a poorly executed attempt at a kidnapping. He quickly took stock of his supposed opponents, deciding in an instant that they weren’t even worth arming himself with anything but his own fists. A fearsome and sadistic grin overtook his face. Now this was more like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might take a little longer, but stay tuned!


End file.
